by Shéa MacLeod
“Naked!” Lin crowed.
“Oh!” Cheryl’s eyes widened, and her cheeks darkened.
“It was only women,” Marie lamented. “Most of the gentlemen couldn’t get time off work so only came on the weekend for the ball, but the rest of the time, we had our little fun.”
Which led me to believe that the sisters had been in on the naked hot tubbing. I definitely wanted to be like them when I grew up.
“Too bad there’s no hot tub here,” Lin chuckled. “Jar some of these stick in the mud people right up their boring arses.”
“There are two kinds of Regency costumers,” Marie explained, eyeballing me over her cards. “The ones who want to believe Jane Austen was all there was to the Regency and everything was staid and proper.”
“And the ones who actually read history,” Lin finished dryly. “Believe me, the second group has more fun.”
“Count me in for the second group,” I said.
“Now let me guess,” Lin continued. “You want to have a chat with some more of our group. Try and find out if any of them saw what happened on the ship.”
I was startled. Had she read my mind? “How’d you know?”
“Honey, you were asking questions just like a reporter,” Marie said. “Or a cop. And we know you’re neither of those.”
“Bet you’re not ‘researching’ for any of your steamy historicals, either.” Lin winked.
“You know who I am?” Why was I even the least bit surprised?
“Sure,” Lin said, downing an entire glass of port in one swallow. “We know who both of you are. Enjoy both of your books. Though I’d love to see some Regency escapades.” She nudged me and gave me a knowing wink.
“I just might after this weekend,” I admitted.
After a few hands of whist, we refilled our port glasses and swapped tables. This time Cheryl and I sat with the two young twenty-somethings, Lenore and Beth. They looked a little bored. Beth kept peeking into her reticule. I was pretty sure she was hiding a cell phone in there.
“We were hoping for some young men,” Lenore confided during the first hand. She was a plump girl with long, dirty blonde hair that had been done up in a simple bun. The curls on her temples had gone limp. Her pale pink gown did her complexion no favors, making her appear washed out and pasty.
“Ella keeps promising to get some to come,” Beth explained, “and yet they never show up.” Her full lips twisted in displeasure. She was bone thin with olive skin and short, dark hair. Her gown was a faded orange which actually looked not bad on her.
“You come to these things to meet men?” Cheryl asked with surprise, glancing around as if men might suddenly pop out of the woodwork.
“Not totally,” Lenore said. “We like dressing up, playing cards, dancing. It’s fun. Like we’re in an old movie.” She beamed with excitement, turning her rather plain face downright pretty. “And Beth loves sewing the clothes while I make our jewelry and hats.”
“They’re very nice,” Cheryl said politely, sliding me a sideways look.
Tonight, the two were wearing simple tiaras. I think they were supposed to look like they were made of coral, but they were clearly cheap plastic beads hot glued to old coat hangers that had been twisted into something resembling crowns.
“Thanks.” Lenore touched her tiara proudly. “I might open a shop on Etsy. I think I’ve got a knack.”
“You’ve got something,” I mumbled under my breath. Cheryl kicked me under the table. “Something really unique,” I said a bit louder.
“We keep hoping to meet someone, though,” Beth said. “Two someones, actually. We’re not that close.” The girls tittered awkwardly in the way young twenty-somethings do. I remembered myself at that age. Definitely awkward.
“Unfortunately, costuming seems to be mostly women,” Lenore sighed tragically. “The only men around are married.”
“Well, you looked very lovely out on the boat,” I said cheerfully. “Maybe one of the sailors noticed.”
The girls cheered up at that idea. My mother would have told me I was going to Hell for lying. I doubted any of the sailors had noticed the two girls. The only attention any of the crew had paid us, beyond the usual professionalism and hospitality, was the flirtation between the first mate and Lisa James.
“Did you see how the first mate dove in the water to try and save Mrs. Yates?” Beth asked. “Totally swoon-worthy.”
“Very heroic,” I agreed. “Did you see what happened? All I heard was a scream and then everyone was running around.”
“Same here,” Lenore said. “Not that I was paying attention to her. She’s so mean. Always telling me how I should do this or that to lose weight. As if there’s anything wrong with me.”
I had to agree with her there. Even if there had been something wrong with Lenore, it wasn’t Tabitha’s place to point it out.
“She gave me dating tips,” Beth said with annoyance. “As if her playing cougar gave her any credibility.”
“Anthony is younger than Tabitha?” I was surprised. He hadn’t looked it, exactly. He was so worn down.
“Three years,” Beth tittered. She made it sound like thirty. “Like, couldn’t she find anyone her own age?”
“Three years difference hardly makes her a cougar,” I said dryly. “I believe the rule of thumb is ten. Besides, men date younger women all the time and nobody bats an eyelash.”
“Still, it’s kind of desperate,” Beth said.
The game progressed slowly with the girls more focused more on gossip than the game. Which would have been fine if they actually knew anything of use.
“Who you should really talk to is Bryon,” Lenore said randomly.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“About what happened.” She laid down a card, picked up her port glass, and took a delicate sip. “To Tabitha.”
“Why?” I asked, baffled.
“Because,” she said with a long-suffering sigh, “he was the one closest to Tabitha when she went overboard.”
“Yes, we know that.” Frustration gave my tone more of an edge than I meant it to. “But he was never close enough to push her over.”
Lenore gave me a smug look. “Yes, he was.”
“You saw him?” Cheryl asked.
Lenore nodded. “We both did.” She indicated Beth. “In fact, I even saw them kiss.”
Chapter 8
Cutting Glass
I COULD BARELY KEEP my concentration on the game after Lenore’s revelation. Bryon had very definitely said he was nowhere near Tabitha before her death—even though I knew he’d been the closest to her other than, perhaps, her husband—but Lenore claimed otherwise. Was she right about Bryon and Tabitha kissing? I could hardly believe it, but why would Lenore lie? To get attention, maybe, but then wouldn’t she have claimed to have seen Tabitha go overboard? Now that would have gotten her some attention. No, I was fairly confident she was telling the truth. Or at least the truth as she saw it. Which meant I needed a word with Bryon.
The minute the game was over, I rushed to the “bar” to pour myself a very large glass of port, waving Cheryl over. “Can you believe it?” I hissed as she hurried up.
“So much for Bryon being innocent. Maybe Anthony’s accusation was right on the money.” She poured her own drink.
“I find it hard to believe Bryon and Tabitha would make out right in front of Anthony. We need to talk to Bryon again.” Maybe he’d been lying. Or maybe he’d just been too wasted to remember. Either way, I wanted to hear his response to Lenore’s accusation.
“If he’s sober enough.”
I snorted. “Yeah, there’s that. Do you see him?”
I glanced around the room. The other party goers were also taking a break. Some stood around chatting. Others helped themselves to snacks. Cheryl and I moved away from the bar as Maurice Patel and Kieran Knightly converged for port refills. Nowhere did I see Bryon.
“I saw him earlier. He came in with Jayne.” Cheryl stood on tiptoe. “I
don’t see either of them. Hard to miss her in that stunning red gown.”
“Are you looking for Jayne?” Gwen Bates asked as she poured herself a large glass of tawny port. She was wearing a bronze-and-cream-striped taffeta gown with a crisscrossed bodice. She’d tucked her silvery-blonde hair under a white mob cap with long, floppy things over the ears, much like Elizabeth Bennet’s mother in Pride and Prejudice.
“Bryon, actually,” I said.
She made a face.
“You don’t like Bryon, I take it?” Easy conclusion based on her reaction.
She waved us over to a quiet corner and her expression turned conspiratorial. “You didn’t hear this from me, but you should stay as far away from That Man as you can.”
“Why’s that?” Cheryl asked. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”
“Listen, I know he’s Jayne’s beau, and Jayne is a beloved member of this community, but…” Gwen took a swig of fortifying port, “the truth is he is not a nice man. There have been rumors.”
“Rumors about what?” I asked.
She lowered her voice so we could barely hear her. “Rumors about his behavior with certain members of our group. Younger members.”
I glanced inadvertently at Lenore and Beth.
Gwen shook her head adamantly. “Not those two. His type is quite… different. They’re not here this weekend.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant different in age or gender or looks. I didn’t suppose it mattered either way other than how big a jerk it made him.
“There are also rumors about him and Tabitha Yates,” she said with a sideways glance to ensure no one was listening in.
“You mean about her husband accusing Bryon of pushing her overboard?” I asked.
“I heard about that. Men. Must they be so dramatic? No, I mean, there’s been a rumor going around that the two of them were Up To Something.”
By which I assumed she meant they were having an affair. Maybe Lenore really had seen them kissing. It seemed unlikely, but people are strange.
“Wasn’t she too old for him?” Cheryl asked. “I mean, if he was more interested in your younger members.”
“Who knows!” Gwen nearly sloshed her port as she waved her hand for emphasis. “With a person like that, anything could happen.”
Fortunately, at that moment, Mary Rett drew Gwen’s attention away. Apparently, they were to be partners at the next hand of whist.
“If you’re looking for Bryon and Jayne,” Kieran Knightly said as he sauntered by, “they’re out on the front porch. Bryon’s got his flask and some ‘special’ cigarettes.”
“I assume he means pot,” I said dryly.
“Pretty mild for Bryon,” Cheryl said. “He seems to favor illegal substances.”
“Well, let’s go join them. Maybe we can get the truth from Bryon.”
“Or maybe Jayne will rat him out. She doesn’t seem to like him much.”
“Really?” That surprised me. They’d seemed fine on the boat and later at tea, but then I hadn’t been paying them much attention. Especially after the incident with Tabitha Yates.
“They were arguing on the ship. After Tabitha’s body was brought up. They sort of stood in the corner and whispered angrily.”
“You’re sure it was a fight?” If what Lenore had claimed was true, maybe Jayne had seen her boyfriend kissing another woman.
Cheryl nodded. “Definitely. Jayne was miffed about something. That much was clear.”
“Huh. Interesting.” I wasn’t sure what it meant or even if it tied into Tabitha’s death, but there was one way to find out.
Sure enough, we found Jayne and Bryon on the front porch seated at a wrought iron bistro table. Jayne, dressed in an elegant red dress with a vintage black shawl wrapped around her shoulders for warmth, was drinking a glass of port and brazenly smoking marijuana. It was legal now, and we were on private property, but I seriously doubted the owners of the B & B would appreciate it. The musky, herbal stench made my nose itch. Bryon was dressed in a perfect Mr. Darcy outfit complete with skin tight breeches and a top hat. He was tipped back in his chair, hat at a jaunty angle, drinking from his flask. His eyes had a glassy sheen as if he was high on something much harder than pot, and his cheeks and nose were flushed from drink.
“Hi, you guys,” Cheryl said brightly. “May we join you?”
“Hey.” Jayne’s voice was low and throaty, sexy like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. She waved languidly to a couple of empty chairs. “Have at it. Want a puff?” She held out the joint.
“No thanks,” I said. Cheryl shook her head.
Jayne shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She took another deep drag.
“We just needed a breath of fresh air,” I said. “It’s a bit warm in there.”
Jayne said nothing, just stared off into the distance with a bored expression, letting smoke drift from her lips. Bryon, however, laughed like I’d said something hilarious and offered his flask, which I refused.
“Have either of you seen Anthony?” I asked. I hadn’t expected him to be at the party, but I was curious as to their reactions.
Jayne shrugged languidly, turning her head as if something out on the street fascinated her. In another person I might have found that suspicious, but in Jayne—well—that was just her. I wasn’t sure if her boredom was genuine, or an affectation. I suspected the latter.
Bryon, on the other hand, was more interesting. His face flushed a deeper angry red, highlighted by the lantern that flickered on the table. “Bastard better not show his face,” he grumbled. “Accusing me of killing his wife. Can you believe it?” He took a deep swig of whatever was in that flask. The alcoholic fumes practically hovered in the air. Whatever it was, you could have stripped paint with it.
“I imagine he was distraught,” Cheryl said wryly.
“And you were close to Tabitha when she went over,” I pointed out.
That got both of their attention. Bryon squawked like a chicken. Jayne’s head whipped around, and she fixed me with gimlet eyes. “Are you accusing Bryon of murder?” Her voice was free of inflection, but ice cold.
“Did I say anything about murder?” I said blandly. “All I said was he was close to Tabitha, so one could understand why an upset, grieving husband might make such an accusation.”
“Who said I was near Tabitha?” Bryon finally spluttered.
I wondered if he even remembered his previous statement outside Flavel House, or if he was just worried in general. “You were seen. You were also seen kissing her.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, and let out another squawk. Jayne glared daggers as she continued alternating sips of port with puffs of smoke.
“Whoever said that is a liar,” she snarled from between pouty, red lips that perfectly matched her dress.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “If I tell Detective Battersea, he’ll look into it. Ask around. Bet he’ll find someone who can corroborate. One of the sailors, maybe.”
“So what!” Bryon sputtered. “So I was standing near her. That doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean I pushed her. And I definitely didn’t kiss her.” The disgusted twist to his features made it clear what he thought about that. “Why would I kill her?”
“I don’t know,” I said calmly. “Why would you?”
“I wouldn’t. That’s why. I admired Tabitha. Not enough to kiss.” Again, the disgusted look. “But the woman spoke her mind. Unlike some.” He shot Jayne a look I couldn’t quite interpret. “Bet it was that husband of hers.” His expression was mulish.
“And why would Anthony murder his own wife?” I asked.
“Because—” Bryon opened his mouth, but before he could say anything further, Jayne gave him a slight shake of the head. He clapped his mouth shut. “Just… it’s always the spouse, right?”
“Good point,” I said, realizing I’d get no more out of him on that subject. “Why would someone say they saw you kissing Tabitha.”
“I don’t know.” He seemed legitimately
baffled. “Maybe they know about—”
“I think you should go.” Jayne cut him off, her tone firm, final.
Cheryl and I exchanged looks. Obviously, Bryon knew something, and Jayne was either in on it, or at least didn’t want us in on it.
“Why’s that?” I demanded.
Her gaze could have cut glass. “Bad things happen to people who ask too many questions.”
I crossed my arms and matched her glare for glare. “Is that a threat?”
She tapped a bit of ash from the tip of her joint. “Take it any way you want.”
“Fine,” I said, standing. “We’ll go. But this isn’t the end of it. This is not a game. This is murder.”
Bryon looked away, but Jayne’s eyes were cold and hard. Unease shifted through me. Maybe I should put her at the top of my suspect list.
Chapter 9
Party Pooper
It was past nine by the time I woke up the next morning. I am not a morning person at the best of times, and Cheryl and I had been up until two in the morning discussing what we’d learned at the party. Especially the fact that Bryon had nearly revealed something to us, and that Jayne had stopped him.
“And what was with that threat?” Cheryl said. “I mean, the unmitigated gall!”
I’d finally called a Lyft to get her outraged and slightly tipsy self home, so I could get some sleep. Not that I’d disagreed with her. Jayne’s behavior had been strange and verging on scary. Maybe she was always like that. I probably should ask one of the other costumers.
I rolled over in bed and stared at the shadows playing through the crack in the curtains. I could hear the wind whipping at the corners of the house. It was going to be a blustery day. Which might make the next outing unpleasant. The costumers planned to tour Fort Clatsop—a recreation of the original fort Lewis and Clark had built in what is now downtown Astoria—that afternoon with a picnic lunch to follow, weather permitting. I planned to be right there with them.
I slid out of bed, wincing at the chill of the hardwood floor. Slipping on my fuzzy purple slippers, I shrugged into my matching robe and thumped downstairs to the kitchen. Coffee was the number one priority.